Four Phases
by Firnheledien
Summary: The Hakkai-Kanan arc told in 4 vignettes from 4 POVs. With a surprising turn of events. Chapters 3 and 4 up.
1. Spring

Four Phases  
  
Chapter 1: Spring  
  
Disclaimer: Do I look like a multi-talented professional manga artist who created a runaway hit series to you?  
  
My return. For my reviewers. Inspired by Zhang Yimou style storytelling: the Hakkai-Kanan arc told in a collection of vignettes. Sorry if it's short.  
  
***  
  
Soap. Water. I scrub with an ironclad gentleness peculiar to only myself: woman.  
  
The young woman is pale. Not with the white of driven snow but the effortless kind of sun-drenched fairness. It responds so well to the pampering of luxury. I have never seen such fine skin on a human.  
  
I sniffed critically. The jasmine soap had been a bad idea--too strong and heady for her delicacy. I wanted something light yet exotic (the master was always fussy about presentation). Apple blossom shampoo. Just the thing for her dirty hair.  
  
I start to comb out the tangles in her hair. The men were always so rough. I lave on the herb gel--absently, almost tenderly. The green paste's grainy texture would do the trick of removing the grime.  
  
A red weal runs along her white shoulder. Long, not deep but enough to draw blood. This would require some willow extract.  
  
She gasps when I apply the stinging balm. The woody scent would calm her, I hoped. She had that look that all girls have when they are brought to my care. Their skittishness and beauty hide all but the veiled fear that waits to spring out from beneath their sedated haze.  
  
The bath ritual is over. Almost too quickly for her. The certainty of panic suddenly blooms on her face.  
  
And what a face. She was the morning sun caught in a curtain of rain shower. A breath of light in the ironclad world of the Hyakugan Maou's servitude. A sun in spring. She is the most beautiful one yet. So beautiful that we have no right to keep her here.  
  
But like so many before, I lead her down the dank corridors. Like so many before her, clothed in that white dress, splotched with blood the morning after.  
  
I leave her standing outside the door--  
  
--like so many others before me. 


	2. Summer

Four Phases  
  
Chapter 2: Summer  
  
Disclaimer: Yea right.  
  
Labrynth (my only reviewer) T_T: I didn't exactly research the scents. My friend has given me a whiff of jasmine and I read about the willowbark somewhere. The apple one is . . . questionable.  
  
The theme and POV should be pretty clear in this one. Plot twist coming straight ahead!  
  
***  
  
White.  
  
What is the colour of the moment? Is it this white dress that blinds me with its simplicity?  
  
Black. Or the strangling darkness that grips this accursed place?  
  
Door. I don't remember coming in through that door. Was there always a door?  
  
Panic. Where? Why? White?  
  
The bed is soft-inviting. Inviting uninvited caresses. Too soft for rest but soft enough . . . for other pleasures. The kind that light shuts its eyes to because only the wounded are worth watching.  
  
"You are--very beautiful."  
  
A hand cups my shoulder. Smooth fingertips brushing my skin: carelessly. The owner knows it can linger in luxurious want. But the touch is unlicensed, unbrokered--because it gives me pleasure.  
  
Weight--warmth--the bed yields to a stranger's form beside me. Breath on my neck. Slow; even deliberate: signalling patience . . . or restrained instinct. Evaporating, leaving raw whisperings in its wake.  
  
"But you're not a virgin."  
  
The hand ceaselessly runs up and down my spine. Slightly callused at the tips (from a life of decadence) but sensitive to peculiarities and nuances. Chilled from holding a wineglass.  
  
"Hmm, but I think I like that."  
  
A bruising motion. Just over the cut on my shoulder.  
  
White. Crumples down and dissolves into the sheets. Discarded. I refuse to look.  
  
"Summer is better than a untested spring. It's warmer."  
  
A nose buried in my hair. Smelling, scenting out with angry passion. A mouth: possessed by streamlined craving. Risking a lick.  
  
Lightning leads to rain. Rain--tears--they are the same.  
  
And I look, and wish that I had not.  
  
Whiteblackwhitewhiteblackwhite--  
  
"G-Gonou?"  
  
White. 


	3. Autumn

Four Phases  
  
Chapter 3: Autumn  
  
Disclaimer: The usual.  
  
Thanks for reviewing. So far everyone has guessed correctly that the first POV is a servant's. Phew: I thought it might be a bit too vague. About the scents: refer to chapter 2. Restrained emotion. . . probably.  
  
Enjoy this chapter: it's my favourite of the 3 so far.  
  
***  
  
Drip.  
  
Murderer. Butcher. Abattoir. Bloodbath. Kill. Slaughter.  
  
Six words for one hundred and sixteen times more lives. Six times one hundred and sixteen slashes of red across the walls. Six times one hundred and sixteen times over has autumn's garish hand painted the chambers red.  
  
Drip. Drip.  
  
Six times one hundred and sixteen times has this blade cut downward. Has my hand bathed in the celebratory spurt of blood before death, six times one hundred and sixteen times already?  
  
Drip. Drip. Drip.  
  
I cross the stairs, splattered with the remains of multitudinous lives. Incarnadine. But it does not match my shirt and pants and eyes.  
  
No. Only the sword can wear it so boldly.  
  
Up. Down. Left. Right. Wails-shrieks. Footsteps.  
  
Shadows: I cut them down before they appear. Like a scythe set loose in a cornfield. The screams and cries--just solos in orchestrated cacophony. They rise and fall: studied in death.  
  
Six times one hundred and sixteen lives. How many dreams have I sacrificed to see this? Six times one hundred and sixteen nights.  
  
Drip. Drip.  
  
I make the mistake of slashing through a curtain.  
  
One hundred eyes . . . . One hundred eyes mark his limbs. I see one hundred eyes through a haze of blood-matted hair. Was it really that many?  
  
They told me he had one hundred eyes, but they never told me--  
  
--That he looked like me.  
  
Drip. 


	4. Winter

Four Phases  
  
Chapter 4: Winter  
  
Disclaimer: I disclaim claiming that Saiyuki belongs to me by writing this disclaimer so that nobody will claim otherwise. *grins*  
  
For UltraM2000: because she's grossed out by the concept. Thank you for reviewing everybody!  
  
***  
  
Spray.  
  
The blade. The wielder. The sword. The swordsman. The bloodied. The bloody.  
  
In this life there are appropriations. And there are none. What becomes one moment is useless the next.  
  
What is appropriate with a blade through your heart?  
  
Nothing.  
  
Beaded moisture creeping up silk; grabbing, angry red fingers of retribution. One hundred eyes serve no purpose if they cannot see the truth.  
  
Vengeance. Amazement. Fury. Desperation. Fear. Deceit. Written so clearly in his face. So many conflicts that produce twisted; even poisonous beauty.  
  
The rain drowns out everything. Percussive persuasion for death. Coaxing surrender. Together with the cold wind washing the castle dry of life.  
  
And in this rain, I hear footsteps. Staccato. Harsh breaths--into the joy of anticipation.  
  
"Kanan . . . for you . . . ." Spoken so softly. In deadly lack of brutality.  
  
The blade withdraws.  
  
There is nothing on that face that speaks of violence. But those who have not tasted it create a different kind of revenge. He is bloodstained beyond belief. Learned to whittle away life as easily as drinking water.  
  
Faces are just faces. Two faces can mirror the opposites of the heart. I know--  
  
--because he wears mine.  
  
In rain. 


End file.
